


Warm Me Up (Beneath the Sheets)

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic, Shameless Smut, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The snow frosts her eyelashes. When she blinks a miniature shower of white sweeps over her vision before the world solidifies again, yet each time he remains. He crouches by the icy river, drawing shapes into the frozen surface with a forefinger. A storm rumbles somewhere over the southern horizon. The forest, whether from the weight of the snowfall or from the deadened winter midnight, seems still. Its chi has settled into a calm lake. No longer a rippling, churning sea of disparate bodies and disjointed sources, but a calm lake, its mild waves hinting at the dens of hibernating animals and the trunks of ancient trees."</p><p>After all, there's no better way to fight hypothermia than rabid lovemaking. Ling and Lan Fan should know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Me Up (Beneath the Sheets)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "more transstuck lingfan please~? maybe some smut? could you do one of those super cliche ling and lan fan need to warm up things? thank you~"
> 
> I'm unused to writing trans smut, so consider this an experiment (which is dumb considering who _I_ am, but there you go). As I told you on LP, I'll write you a better fill later, and as always, thank you for the prompt.
> 
> This takes place sometime after Brotherhood. The characters are at least eighteen. If I fucked up at any point please let me know. Lan Fan is a transwoman, by the way, and given that FMA takes place prior to modern medicine, you should be aware of what you're reading.

The snow frosts her eyelashes. When she blinks a miniature shower of white sweeps over her vision before the world solidifies again, yet each time he remains. He crouches by the icy river, drawing shapes into the frozen surface with a forefinger. A storm rumbles somewhere over the southern horizon. The forest, whether from the weight of the snowfall or from the deadened winter midnight, seems still. Its _chi_ has settled into a calm lake. No longer a rippling, churning sea of disparate bodies and disjointed sources, but a calm lake, its mild waves hinting at the dens of hibernating animals and the trunks of ancient trees.

Ling chuckles. She looks out onto river and immediately regrets every decision in her life: Her gaze alights upon a crude portrait of himself and her presumably sitting together, under which he has written several lines from what she recognises as a love poem. And under _that_ , the root of his mirth. Another portrait, only clearly not _sitting_ together. Lan Fan lowers herself, resting her weight on her thighs, and pulls off her right glove with her teeth. The thick fur bunches around her fingers. Bite. Tug. With her palm she smears the offending picture away and outlines another.

Though she hears his footsteps crunching the snowbank behind her, the sudden warmth of his chest against her back and his arms looped around her waist shocks heat into her fingertips. “That looks pretty kinky,” he says nonchalantly. “Want to try it?”

She twists an arm behind her until she brushes against the fur rim of his coat. Stretching farther she presses the back of her hand between his shoulder blades. He _yip_ s and she laughs under her breath. Instead of jerking away from her, however, he clutches her more tightly, an iron bar around her midsection. “Alas, I doubt we have everything we need.”

He kisses the top of her head. The immotile river reflects her faint blush. “Alas indeed. Even the Emperor of Xing can’t have _everything_ , it seems. Not even the gods are promised great sex.”

Lan Fan raises an eyebrow. “I believe I said that we wouldn’t have everything for _this_. Not for sleeping together in general.”

“Mm.” His exhalation wisps upwards in fog. “Next time we go on a retreat, we’ll have to invite May and Al. You could toss them into an empty room entirely buck-naked and they’re have lube and harnesses in their hands within seconds.” She smiles. Their portrait fades into the river as his arms fall to his sides and she bites her tongue to keep herself from embracing him for warmth. Despite the layers of thick wrapping her automail leeches cold. His fingers curve into her palm; he takes her hand. “Come. It’s this way.”

The wooden lodge of the retreat, he explains, is an offset of the former Emperor’s summer home in the years before age rendered him weak, arthritic, unable to travel. A stakeout for his hunting parties, it sounded far more cozy than the spacious version of the imperial quarters of the summer home proper. “If it’s just you and me,” he explains as she pushes a frosted tree branch from their path, “I don’t want us to run around hollering for each other and never find the other.”

“Preposterous. I’m much better at tracking _chi_ than that.”

The lodge rises from the snowy slope of the foothills. Two tattered navy blue flags emblazoned with a coiled dragon, the sigil of the former Emperor’s Clan, continue to flutter in the weak wind, although one of them has torn off halfway, leaving a serrated edge of thin bands. Ling _hrm_ s. “We’ll have to fix it up next winter. Phoenixes instead of overgrown lizards. And some yellow to stand out a bit against the blue on top of blue, huh?”

“It seems like the Emperor’s great reforms,” says Lan Fan, nudging Ling in the ribs through the thick fur of his coat, “have yet to cascade all the way out here.”

“I know! It’s like the second I ascended the throne all the blue in the kingdom should’ve spontaneously turned gold.” He snaps his fingers. “Well, it ain’t gettin’ any bluer. Let’s take a look inside.”

She laughs quietly. “In more ways than one by the day’s end. Or that should be, the night’s end.”

The darkness within reveals the outline of an curved fireplace. Lan Fan reads Xing in the construction of the entire building: Round doorways, round windows, round bowls stacked neatly and coated in years’ worth of dust. Cycles, circles, always circumscribing innovation within the endless return to tradition. While she kneels to stoke a fire from the frigid ashes, he begins to clean at least the kitchen in which they presumably plan to eat at some point. At length the flame crackles hungrily. She feeds broken logs to the ravenous embers as they grow, licking at the steadily increasing sizes of firewood until she comfortably slots two thick pieces into the dancing captured sun. Sitting back, she removes her gloves. Heat diffuses across her flesh hand, cutting through the deep-set chill; the taut, aching skin of her left shoulder loosens as her automail expands. Ling’s footsteps sweep through the doorway. “Ah, warmth at last!” He sighs longingly, collapsing to his knees, and strips off the coat. Then his features contort into that of someone just run off of a cliff. “Cold cold _cold_.” He struggles back into the sleeves, and she notes the pale skin, almost translucent, shot through with icy blue veins fading to violet at the edges. The pattern differs on either arm, patterns she has memorised over their years together, patterns far too close to the surface for her comfort.

“Ling,” she whispers. At the softness of his name on her frost-tinged lips, he lifts his head. “You’re too cold.”

When he smiles his teeth chatter. A crack in his lower lip dribbles languid drops of blood onto his chin. “Nah, the cold never bothered me anyway.” The tendon in his neck flexes, disturbingly visible against his chilled skin. “Unless you’d like to warm me up.”

The smoke she inhales winds down her throat and throughout her body, settling in her lower belly to culture a miniature blaze. The influx of blood from the rest of her form builds the warmth over again. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?”

“C-considering the last time we _fucked_ ,” he responds cheerfully, emphasising the word with a pause, “I’d say since this morning.”

At the dirty language, her cheeks burst into fire. He winks. “This morning was a kiss and half of a lewd conversation. We haven’t properly fucked since we left Xijing.” Rising partially upon bent knees, she crouch-shuffles towards him. She links her arms around him to stroke his stomach, with her chest weighing down on his shoulder blades and her mouth warm on the side of his neck. The rug feels soft enough: She guides him to lie down on his front, although he tucks his hands into his sleeves and curls his legs as near his body as possible. “One moment.” He makes a noise of complaint deep in his throat as Lan Fan quits him and instead drags the rug, and the frigid man on it, towards the fire. “Could you turn around?”

“If the most important bits of me don’t freeze off. How rich would the coffers of Xing _be_ if I lost the royal jewels?” She slaps his backside. Jolting, Ling grins at her while he wriggles onto his back, and she straddles him again. “I probably deserved that.”

Lan Fan squeezes her thighs together until she can feel the resistance of his torso through the thick mesh. Leaning onto him, she flattens herself against his body, her crotch grinding down on his. She observes the thick swallow bobbing his neck; reaching and cursing the several centrimetres of height difference between them, she kisses the hollow of his throat, the firm line of his jaw, the pliable, parted softness of his lips. Her tongue dips experimentally into his mouth, even the inside colder than it should have been. She explores the underside of his tongue, licks the roof of his mouth, tastes his pulse at the bottom of the inside of his cheek. Bracing the tip of hers on the membrane on the base of his, she pulls his tongue into her mouth and sucks back, trapping him in her heat and coaxing a faint moan from his throat. He shudders, his exhalation sweet.  While she continues to pass fire into him through the bond of their mouths, she massages his shoulders and arms, rubbing in sparks of heat, and he pulls his head back with a wet _pop_. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look with your eyes so dark from desire? Almost as if _you_ went off and consumed Greed while I was dicking around on the throne.” Recovering from the blush that threatens to transform her into an inferno—at least the cold has seeped back into a glorious summertime sunshine—she replies by bearing down upon him with a greater force. “Could you move your hips more? I want to _feel_ you, Lan Fan.” His voice deepens. “ _All_ of you.”

“He really did rub off on you, didn’t he?” She rolls her hips, grinds into him, slides her right hand over his chest and between her thighs to rest upon the growing bulge in his trousers.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one rubbing off on me at the moment.”

In retaliation Lan Fan clenches her fingers around said bulge, silently relieved that he’s warmed up enough for an erection, and he yelps. “I hope I am. A certain Emperor I know could stand to be a tad more responsible and dedicated to his work. And perhaps if he didn’t doze off on the job, he wouldn’t have to consistently pull all-nighters to catch up.”

The mock offence written over his face brings a bark of a laugh from her belly. “Perhaps if his advisors weren’t so boring, he wouldn’t doze off.”

“Of course, of course, blame everything but yourself.” She increases the depth of her dry thrusts, straining the tense muscles of her thighs in her awkward position, and leaves his sleeves to take to unbuttoning his coat. Below her weight he rises to the challenge, pushing upwards and angling his hips to match her beat. The consistent rhythm of pressure pulses pleasure through her, akin to stroking oneself through clothing: enough to excite her but not enough to wet the inside of her undergarments. Although by the manner in which he kneads his lower lip with his teeth, she sees he’s just as frustrated by the muffled, indistinct touch, by the lack of direct contact between them. Beneath three layers of coat, she finds bare skin at last, but when she runs her flesh palm over his chest he inhales sharply. “Cold?”

“A tad.” Wriggling under her and inadvertently _against_ her, Ling retracts his arms in towards himself and covers his chest with the sides of his layers. “Hey, at least it’s not your automail, right?”

Lan Fan slips her gloves back on and carefully slides her hands _under_ the fabric to map the bumpy terrain of his nipples, already pointed from the chill. “I remember the one time I attempted to finger you with _that_ hand by accident.”

He grimaces; she senses his abdominal muscles tightening, and she snickers. “Don’t remind me.”

She kisses him again before lowering her head to trail flame down his chin, throat, collarbone in dampening patterns until saliva glistens amid the love bites already blooming violet-red on his jaw and over the ridge of his collarbone. As she gently moves aside the folds of his coats, her breath steams over the dark pink of his nipple. He squirms and _whimpers_ , a noise that forces her grind harder against him, her own bulge now moistening her smallclothes while she bumps against his. She runs her tongue over the crest, one, twice, thrice, and takes him into her mouth with a loud, wet _sshll_ that bucks his hips. To her satisfaction she feels his fingers clutching at her shoulders. Grunting, he clumsily unbuttons her outer coat with pale fingers.

“Here, my impatient avarice.” Lan Fan catches his wrist in her left hand and brings him to her lips. Freezing. She encloses his fingers in her mouth, worming her tongue around and between them to the knuckles, parting her lips slightly to allow Ling to see the bright red of her inner mouth. While she bobs her head and traces the more sensitive, hidden patterns in the creases of his hand, she gazes up at him, less like a faithful servant to a master and more like a huntress about to smite her prey upon a butterfly sword. A trail of spittle glisters at the corner of his lips; his shoulders shake, his muscles flexing gorgeously as he shudders; his irises glitter darkly behind his long lashes. Around his fingers, she smirks mischievously. “And do _you_ have any idea how beautiful you look at my mercy like that?” He gasps and groans a second thereafter, his unoccupied hand finding a space between the buttons to pull at her bindings.

“Your breasts,” he murmurs, and she can tell by the huskiness of his voice that he’s close, close from the interplay of heat and cold, close from the wild sense of desecrating the former Emperor’s favoured lodge, close from the days of hard riding and the meagre session of the morning, “are my daily reminder that God exists.”

When he cups her breast, the right one, the more sensitive one, she sucks back on his fingers, dampening his hand with a final swipe of the tongue, and returns her attention to his nipple. Ling palms her other breast in an instant, rubbing both of his palms over her small chest, specifically bearing down upon _her_ nipples just as she bears down the apex of his groin. She rolls her hips over and over again, pushing into him, and he answers her every thrust until they move more or less together, not quite in sync in the manner of two bodies not entirely used to one another but trying. Abruptly he squeezes her breasts nearly painfully, slipping from her to clasp empty air, and his body curves under her as he arches and shudders, a half-yell ripped from his throat in his climax. She silences him with a desperate kiss, and as the last shivering spasms of the orgasm leave his fingers fluttering, she stretches herself, buttoning her coats. “The face you make when you come over yourself is _my_ daily reminder that I chose well in making you Emperor.”

He pants. “And I’m grateful for that, and you, every day of my life.” When he blinks and sits up, shifting under her and the bulge still obvious in her pants, Ling frowns. She moves to button his as well, and he grips her wrists tightly. “Wait a second. Equivalent exchange, as the Elrics would say: You can’t expect me to just—”

“I can be greedy sometimes, too, can’t I?” She smiles.

Ling arches his eyebrows as his pupils dilate and his head cocks to one side in an adorable picture of innocent confusion. Then his eyes widen and darken in understanding. “I love it when you are. I love _you_ when you are.”

“Good.” With her automail hand she pushes him out from under her, tucking her knees up until her feet lie flat on the floor. She curves her hands around the tops of her thighs, hooking her index fingers into the waistband of her pants, and raises an eyebrow at him in a mirror of his expression. “Your turn, Ling.”

The Emperor in question runs his tongue over his lower lip, twisting about until he kneels before her as a priest kneeling before a sacred altar. He slides his fingers over her knuckles, and she lowers her eyelids at their newfound heat. “You think _you’re_ being the greedy one?” he whispers, his breath warm on her abdomen. “Because I’ve like to take everything you can give me, and more.”


End file.
